


Walk Alone in Fear

by Krystalicekitsu



Series: Wings [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Dean Winchester, Angels, M/M, Rescue, Torture, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-06
Updated: 2011-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:04:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/pseuds/Krystalicekitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Lucifer have been captured by angels, and Dean will do anything for his brother. Even the stupidest suicide run since the Alamo. He only hopes he's not too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk Alone in Fear

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be _shorter_ that the first one, but I kept finding things I wanted to add in and then it sort of exploded again and now it's twice as long as **Wings Always Come After a Fall**.

" _DE-_ …"

"… _-ea-_ "

"… _ **d-**_ …"

"- _ **N!**_ "

The pain is excruciating. His every nerve, both human and newly made grace, are howling- _screeching_ \- and it takes Every. Bit. Of. Concentration. To keep a hold on his body. He's spiraling out of control and his wings snap out, trying to slow him down, trying to alter, if not control his destination.

But his wings snap back in from the pressure, folded back into himself- _into his vessel_ \- even as he fights to stay with his flesh. When he finally stops, his grace is quivering in exhaustion and pain, his wings ache and he has no idea where he is. He falls to his knees, trying to catch his breath, even though his chest isn't moving- doesn't need to.

His angelic vision is swimming even as his human sight picks out the twinkling form of a distant city, orange glow like fire against the black sky.

He's weak, in pain, tired, confused and lost.

~ _Dean? Dean. I don’t know if you can hear me. I don’t know- I- Damnit. They- they took Lucifer. And Sam. I'm sorry Dean. I don’t know- Dean, just- I need to know- ~_

 _~Dean._ ~

The heartbreak in that last plea is almost enough to keep him alert, but his grace is in too much pain and he has no way of finding Cas. Not like this.

With weary fear and despair, Dean Winchester falls to unconsciousness for the first time as an angel.

~~~~~~~

He wakes up- can he call it that if he doesn't need to sleep?- on the same high cliff he'd managed to land himself on, a breeze ruffling his hair as he starts processing the signals from his body. Eyes snap open and he's on his feet in a micro second, scanning the sparse vegetation of the area.

The sky is lightening as he stands and he wonders how long- _too long_ \- he spent trying to piece himself back together. Doesn't know, doesn't have anyone to ask.

 _Cas_.

He fights, struggles to search out Cas' grace as Lu had shown him- coached him, weeks of hide-and-seek paying off by tackling the younger angel to their brothers' laughter. It's hard. He struggles.

Grace seeps out, seeps in, seeps _somewhere_ , all of the above. Goes to that special place that told him things. He _reaches_ , _presses_ \- asks and demands.

-and he's collapsing to his knees again beside Castiel, fighting the need to crawl into a ball, shroud himself in grace and never wake up.

"Dean!? Dean!" he's lifted, carried for the half a thousandth of a millisecond before he's laid on a motel bed. His grace shouldn't feel this bad, he thinks. But it had been an epic fight, even before the dicks had brought out the banishing sigil. Which he still thinks is a cheap move.

"Dean!"

~ _Dean!_ ~

He's not sure if he _thinks_ at Cas or verbalizes when he growls a question at him, but-

"You've been gone seventeen hours and fifty six minutes. I don't know where they've been taken. We're at the hotel in Baten," there's something warm and tingly seeping through him, and Dean recognizes it- _Castiel's grace_ \- even before it starts to patch him up.

He's still got a bit to go in the 'healing himself' department. And the 'demon ganking' department. And the 'time travel' department. Aw, hell, he's still got a _lot_ to learn.

"I've called Bobby. He's working out a way to track your brother. But, Dean-"

Dean snarls at him, and he's sure it's verbally this time because he can feel the explosion of air expelled from his chest like a popped balloon. The denial and vehemence are clear.

" _No,_ Dean. I was about to say that it will take a while," Cas' eyes are intent, blue gaze focused.

"How long's that?" Dean would be all snark right now- hell, he's _trying_ \- but the worry over Sam (alright- and Lu) steals what little snap from his words he could manage and leaves them hollowed out, like a pumpkin past its expiration date- already carved and molding from the stress of being out in the weather all the time.

"The spell Bobby's found is very involved and taxing. We will need to wait at least half an hour for the invocation to be completed," Cas' reassuring tone is off-set by the worried lines between his eyes.

"Fine," and without further instruction or prompting, he sits down on the motel bed to wait.

It drives him up a wall and inside out to know his brother is hurt and captured but being unable to do anything, to go anywhere, _kill_ anything. It's tearing him up to sit and watch a clock like some civilian, unable to act.

He gets up and goes to Sam's duffle to sharpen the demon killing knife, to try and keep his hands busy, his mind distracted- before he remembers that Sam has it. Fuck.

He paces the room instead, wings humming and agitated behind him, trying not to think of all the things that they could be doing to Sam. All the things Sam could be going through. He's not very good at it, and for one irrational moment, he wishes Sam were five again, so he could fold him up in his arms and keep the monsters away.

Thirty-five minutes of worry pass and Dean has had enough.

"Fuck it," he growls and unfurls his wings, dead set he's gonna find _something_ to kill. Maybe if he's lucky he'll stumble onto a demon who knows something. He's at the apex of the swing he needs to take off, wings wide and high, when a hand snagging his coat stops him.

Cas' phone rings before he can tear the angel a new one, but he glares menacingly anyway.

"Are you ready?... Yes… Good," the word barely leaves Cas' mouth before they're standing in the middle of Bobby's living room and Dean is fighting off a wave of vertigo that sends him to one knee.

Bobby shouts something and Cas' hand is a steadying presence on his shoulder, but he doesn't need help, damnit, he just needs somewhere to sit. Somewhere that doesn't make his grace throb and snarl at him quite so much.

Cas leads him to the couch and he sits heavily while Bobby growls, worried and angry.

"'M not gonna give you the spell if he's that bad off!"

"He'll recover with a little time. He's not too damaged to fight. It's fine." Cas' doesn't _sound_ flippant, but then he never does.

"He sure as hell don’t _look_ 'fine'!"

"Bobby," Dean stands, flaring his wings for balance, "what's the spell?"

Bobby glares at him, but thumps the top of a large tome. Dean recognizes it as The Book of Enoch.

"They took your brother and Lucifer and I'm guessing that they're gonna keep 'em both together. 'S what I'd do, now that 'Michael',-" he waves in Dean's direction, "- 's on the playing field. Try 'n' get the last piece to the puzzle."

"Usin' that," he directs them over to a large protective circle drawn on the floor with chalk, "I tweaked a summoning spell for angels. Should go _backwards_ now. Lead you right to Lucifer. And Sam."

Dean nods, dividing his attention between what Bobby's telling him and the raw press of his grace.

Bobby directs them all to place, glancing at Dean every few minutes like he's really not sure he should be up and around (or if he's not sure Dean _is_ up and around), but a few minutes later and the spell is read off and Lucifer's grace flares bright and hot in his senses for a fraction of a second before it fades off to a dull pulse against his grace.

Bobby reads off the second part of the spell and Dean gasps as his grace expands/contracts/dissolves out/in/backwards somewhere/here/everywhere/nowhere at Lucifer. It's painful and draining. No, fuck that- it _hurts_ , bone-grinding deep ache overlaid with the sharp agony of a banishing sigil and the wrenched, nauseated feeling of a really good concussion.

A positive, painfully shy and hopeful note rings across his grace and he turns to Bobby, tilting his head to hear what he's sure are words, but the distracted pressure of trying to keep his grace stable/one note/harmonic is too much work, so he lets the words slip away and nods. He nods and fights until the pressure hurts. The sudden hand on his shoulder is a shock and he turns to Cas, calming under the soothing pressure of a low harmony melding against him, grateful for even the tiny bit of respite given.

He doesn't know how long he fights the disjointed tearing feelings- it must be hours, he's so _sore_ \- but Cas nudges him, coaxes him to spread his wings and fly. Soothes to accept and stop fighting and because he says so, and because he's Cas, he does.

Wings snap open, high and regal before he pauses to gather himself to the task, focuses like a Winchester should- even a Winchester who's not at all human.

He reaches, keeps reaching, searching, spreading out/in/self/other further and further until he finds it buried/hidden/far, far away. Grasps on with all of his grace, latches on like a lifeline, and clamps a hand to Cas' shoulder before pulling himself to the brightness that is Lucifer. Wing beat to wing beat, closer to the devil. Closer to his brother.

To the small spark that's barely there.

They arrive- no, they don’t crash- in a cafeteria that makes him think of lockers and dodge ball. Glimpses of tables, folded and off to the sides, before Cas has to keep him upright and all his attention is spent spreading his grace to look for his brother.

Sam had been small, quiet, hidden and he doesn't like the bitter flavor of Sam's soul that seeps through him.

Lu's grace is also subdued, smaller than it should be, twisted and raw. The pain echoes out and wants to shred his grace in sympathy, but first things first- he has to get them _out_.

He lets Cas hold him upright for a few seconds, moments long enough to keep his feet under him, readjust his wings. Moments to collect his grace, whisper thanks and steel himself.

He knows who took Sam. Who bound Lucifer.

He thinks it's about time the dick got a taste of his own medicine. And while he’d like nothing better than to call Zachariah out to one knock-down, drag-out, no-ref fight, he’s not stupid enough to do so weakened. Not with Cas along for the ride. Not with Sam's life riding on his survival.

He’s got no problem sacrificing his own life if it means getting his brother back, but Cas has an unhealthy habit of emulating him. Dean definitely _doesn’t_ want Cas pulling this particular trick of his.

He’s also not going to pull something like that when he has no idea what kind of force good ol’ Zach is sitting on.

So they creep carefully past the lunchroom doors and out into the abandoned halls.

 _It must be a weekend, or something,_ Dean thinks, distracted by the lack of noise he’s making in the usually echo-prone halls.

They meet their first angel by accident. Dean brushes past him as they round a corner, and he and Castiel react before Dean really thinks about it, Cas’ sword going through the heart nearly the same time Dean puts him against the wall with a quick spin.

He blinks and the body under his hand disappear.

Turns to Cas questioningly, but he’s already there, whispering words against his ear, “Angels work in pairs on assignment. We’re looking for at least one more.”

Dean nods, trying to ignore the shiver from having Cas so close.

It gets easier when the second half of the pair stumbles into _them_ and squawks loudly before Cas gets a hand over her mouth and dispatches her as well.

Castiel gives him a look that's half-way between stern and slightly protective before shoving one of the sleek, silver blades into his hands, "Don’t fall on it."

Dean's eyebrows go up, _Was that a joke?_ , before he follows after Cas' menacing figure.

He and Cas make short work of the next few rooms, clearing them systematically and killing any angels they encounter along the way.

Dean's getting faster, dodging blows and dealing strikes at amazing speeds, but every time an angel does the disappearing/reappearing mojo on him, he stumbles mentally for a fraction of a second. Castiel has to stop him from getting his heart cut out from behind on one occasion.

They're steadily making their way through the rooms, the vague sense of Sam's soul not nearly enough to pin-point their exact location, especially through the wards that make Cas' angel-dar nearly useless.

And Sam's soul isn't getting any better.

In fact, Dean can hear more of that bitter note in his soul, with a defeat tinged sorrow seeping everywhere, like spoiled wine. It's worrying, more than the fact that he could hardly feel his brother now. The spark that was Sam is hanging on by a tiny, quivering note. Lucifer's grace is nearly gone as well.

And the fact that Dean has no more idea where they were now than he did three hours ago when they arrived at this _fucking_ school is making his grace boil inside his skin.

"How is Sam?" the flat tone hides the concern pulling Cas' mouth down well.

Dean turns to stare at him, face and eyes as cold and flat as his grace is ringing and potent.

Castiel's grace makes a discordant flare as his face closes off.

"We're not getting anywhere fast, Cas. I think the subtlety has run its course."

A pause, then-

"I agree."

~~~~~~~

It takes them a little over twenty minutes to get everything ready.

They appropriate a small classroom on the second floor, perfect in that it has one door (and Dean ignores the pointed look Castiel give him when he starts explaining about number of coverable entrances, but _damnit_ , when you have John-fucking-Winchester for a father, these things don’t just _disappear_ ) and a shit load of windows.

Dean thinks it's probably still a stupid idea, even with the precautions in place. Neither Dean nor Cas can use the angel banishing sigil without blasting each other out and about, so their two swords will have to take down all of Zach's goons. Neither of them wants to risk capture by splitting up.

Dean _did_ prep a sigil, at Cas' insistence, as a backup plan. He isn't stupid.

He doesn't really think Zach'd bring fifty angels, but he isn't going to risk it, either.

Moving to the center of the room is done slow, but he's not stalling, and he's not afraid. No, he's worried. That's it. He's worried that if he screws this up, no one will come for Sam and he and Lu will be guests of the angels and their _tender_ ministrations forever.

Zachariah may be the bulldozer to put a new door in, but that doesn't mean that when he tortures you it won't hurt.

The only difference between that guy and Alistair is the precision of their cuts. And maybe the number of syllables they use.

He stops in the center of the cleared room, maybe just a few steps closer to the back than the door, and glances at Cas. Cas, who's off to the side, nestled near a corner, sword drawn but not aggressive. He takes a deep breath he doesn't need and hushes the atonal buzz in his grace.

He's not afraid.

He's worried.

~ _ZACH_!~

Around him, the flap of feathers unfold and displace the air. He's staring into Zachariah's sneering face with angels around him, between him and the door, between him and the windows. Between him and Cas.

Well, good ol' Zach didn't bring fifty angels with him but the twenty he counts are close enough that Dean's grace rings uncomfortably. Cas eyes him as he turns to the Senior Douche in attendance. He ignores the wary, warning look. He isn't stupid. But he never said he was a genius.

"Zachariah. You have something of mine," Dean's aware he's growling, that low register that roughs his voice up, the one he can't help but sink into when he's pissed and trying to hold himself back, "I want it back."

"Michael," the other angel doesn't sneer it, but it's probably more to do with Dean's presumed status as the general of Heaven's armies than out of any respect, "I'm not giving them back. This pointless _rebellion_ " he does sneer that, "is enough. Father _prophesized_ this. You most of all should be trying to get the younger Winchester to agree to Lucifer. We can _end this_ righ-"

"I'm not going to kill my brother, _Zach_. You may be perfectly fine with the idea of sticking something sharp and lethal into family, but _I'm not_ ," his grip tightens on his sword for a moment and he watches as Zach takes one look at it and backs down.

"Then why do you have _that_?" he points very carefully to the sword Dean's gripping.

"In case you try to do something stupid to Cas-," he stumbles mere millionths of a second before tacking on "-tiel."

Zach just looks at him.

Cas' wings shift and flare fractionally. Dean ignores him, not taking his eyes off Zachariah.

It's right here that will decide how this goes. And there's really only three possible outcomes; either Zach will bow to a higher ranking angel and let them take Sam and Lucifer or he won't.

And if he doesn't, Dean and Cas will have to fight and kill every angel in the room. Or Dean will. Cas will have to stick close to the wall and guard the banishing sigil in case things go horribly wrong.

That's the third outcome and Dean doesn't like it one bit.

Not just because banishing hurts like fuck but because he's put himself up as the sacrificial lamb. Which means that if Cas needs help, if this isn't all the angels Zach has, then Cas will have to search the whole school for Sam and Lu _on his own_ and watch his own back as he gets their two POWs out. And Dean frankly hates that idea.

Zach's grace brushes along his own and this is something that they've gone over, him and Cas. And Dean has been aware from practically the beginning that brushing your grace against a higher ranking angel's is an insult and a test. Disrespect as much as a slap in the face would be. It says 'I don't fear you' and 'you are not worthy of reverence'. It was something that only the thickest fledglings ever did, apparently.

Dean snarls, grace snapping out lightning fast and sharp, a teeth-grating shriek whipped out to cut across the invading grace. Zach jerks back with a gasp and that's it.

Because some young angel raises a blade and aims it for Dean before Zach has the chance to draw the breath to shout 'NO!'

She falls dead to the floor, wings half-furled ash imprints on the ground as the last half of the word is swallowed by the charging of angels.

He has the brief chance to feel Castiel's grace ring out in shock before he's fighting for his life.

Three angels go down in quick succession, one leaking grace from the gash in her throat, another stabbed through the temple and the last kicked, spun and then stabbed in a downward strike through the top of his shoulders. The next two come in slower and he uses a gash across the wrist of one as a distraction to get a center mass hit, the second slashed across the femoral artery and he files away the knowledge that killing blows to humans work the same way on angels- with an angel-killing blade.

Cas gives out a pained grunt and Dean dearly wishes he was less disciplined so he could give in to the urge to turn and see if he's okay. Thirty years of training at his father's hand keeps him focused on the five angels circling him, though.

He puts two down with little effort at all, the third struggling slightly. Numbers four and five coordinate their attacks, ducking high and low in turns, blades and grace humming. The room is alive with singing grace and Dean has a detached moment of clarity when he connects this phenomena to Cas' utter silence when he fights. It's really hard to hear with all the angel chatter in his brain.

Four goes down and Five uses the opportunity to get a gash along Dean's upper arm before he dies in a flare of grace and the ashing of wings.

When Dean looks up, it's just Zach and three angels in the room, two lackeys standing towards Dean, the last between the suit and Cas.

Dean's grace growls, his wings rippling along his back as he advances.

Zach looks afraid, utterly afraid and Dean savors the feeling. Of finally having the squirmy, back stabbing bastard on the hook for once.

One of the angel's, wearing a brunette in a pencil skirt and heels, sways towards him but stills with a look.

Because he's not fucking around anymore. It's been way, _way_ longer than he'd like since he'd laid eyes on Sam and his boyfriend, and Sam's soul is barely an ember in a cooling grate while Lu's grace is flickering wildly, bright and hot with agony.

He doesn't want to, but he can't stop the thought that crosses his mind. The traitorous _Lu's grace is doing that because Sam's dying_ seeps into his grace and the notes sour, bitter and decay.

There's no time, no patience left in him and Zachariah's done. He's just fucking _done_.

"You tell me where my brother is," Dean's voice is a low, enraged, gravel-filled snarl, "or I'll pluck every last note of grace from your damn wings and wear them as a hat."

Zachariah makes no movement, face frozen in a grin desperately trying not to fall off. His eyes, though, are more scared than a lost doe facing down a pack of wolves.

The pencil-skirt charges. Dean blocks her high, low, to one side and then does a complicated move that flings her knife away, spins him around, and cuts a wide gaping mouth across her throat.

One more flash mars the floor with angel wings.

He flips the blade in his hand, blade out and down, like his daddy taught him and advances. There's one more foot soldier between himself and the pompous dick . Just one more.

They meet slowly and circle and sway, each looking for a way in. Then- one strike. Two. Block, slash, dodge, twist. Strike three, strike four.

Dean relaxes. Bends down and picks up the angel's fallen sword.

Stands. Balances it.

And throws it right at Zachariah's cowardly, disappearing ass.

He cusses, short and sharp when the sword misses and then turns to the remaining angel.

"You got something to say?" he demands, sharp and harsh.

She disappears too.

Dean cusses and goes to see how Cas' doing.

"Hey," He moves to inspect the bright red blood dripping down Cas' fingers.

"It's of no concern," Cas says, but rolls up his sleeve anyway, presenting his whole forearm to Dean.

As Dean's poking at it he glances up, "Think that was all of them?"

"Unlikely-," Cas winces as Dean hits a bit of exposed muscle, "They will most likely have a few watch guards on the prisoners for situations like this one. There's even a possibility of a few guards."

"Though I doubt it will be many, if there are," he adds at Dean's frustrated and slightly despairing look.

Dean doesn't have much left to offer on this little trip and if- no, when. _When_ they get Sam back, he'll have to tease him mercilessly about being the damsel in distress that Dean's always accusing him of being.

Because that's what big brother's do- they tease you about your height and your stupid floppy hair and your sasquatch feet and your Princess Emo-ness and your shitty taste in music. And then they save your ass from a bunch of dick angels who want to force your boyfriend to get all up inside you and not in the way he usually does.

Fuck. He needs to find Sam.

He ties up Cas' arm with a spare bit of shirt, because the angel (hah, how odd it is to refer to Cas like that, when he's part of the halo brigade now, too?) hasn't been healing as fast as he should for a while and the gash is pretty deep. Pretty deep as in, if he'd been human he'd _definitely_ be getting stitches and more than likely need a blood transfusion.

But Cas is a stubborn bastard and Dean wants his brother, so angel-aid will have to wait.

He checks the wrap one last time and, satisfied that the bleeding was stopping, used his bloodied hand to smear over the banishing sigil. Wouldn't do for a patrol to find that and use it against them. Or to know exactly who they were up against.

He follows Cas out the door.

For the record, he hates it when Cas is right.

They run into only two patrols in the next hour they waste looking for Sam. Cas- having grace just a tad more stable than Dean's- takes the second group that jumps them right after they ambush the first. Dean would spare a moment for the irony if he wasn't redressing Cas' arm.

They eventually manage to narrow Sam and Lu's location to a big, old fashioned boiler room, or to the closed off furnace room. Dean and Cas share a look and head for the boiler room first. They clear it with quick, efficient checks and covers

They're both standing outside the furnace room door when Dean feels the panicked, squeezed, painfully ragged notes of grace flare, before what's left of Lu's grace goes flat and still, curling in on itself and dulling like a bell muffled through cloth.

Sam's soul is-

Dean doesn't register Cas' hand on his arm, his frantic pleas, doesn't notice the first flare of dying grace behind him or the second. Doesn't notice the bite of an ice-cold blade into his shoulder or the stab to his flank. Doesn't note Cas' presence fighting and shouting to get to his side. The heavy snarl of struggling grace.

There's a buzzing hum in his ears, getting louder and sharper. Words get drowned out by the heavy thud of his heart beat.

Just his.

Not Sam's.

Not Sam's.

He collapses forward with a cry, tears stinging over a tender, snarling heat on his cheek. Gasps and wavers on his knees at the edge of a circle humming with abating power. Sam is- Sam is-

Sam is hanging. Like so much meat, wrists bound in heavy manacles, wards etched into the iron. His chest in shreds. Blood pooling beneath his knees. So much blood.

So much meat.

Not Sam.

Lucifer's body lies still, curled in on itself and painfully hollow. Empty of grace and sound. And Sam…

Sam doesn't move either.

With a thought, within a moment, within a millionth of a second-

He's gone.

~~~~~~~

Dean flies. He flies far and fast, trying to run and needing to run, needing to escape the wringer twisting up the spaces in his chest. He's lost them. He's lost them _both_ and he's not sure if that's better or worse than losing only one of them.

But it doesn't really matter, because all he has to do is get away.

He appears in a bright market at midday, shies away from the noise and sound, running as fast as he can from the center, shoving people. Someone fists a hand in his jacket and shouts at him.

He flies again.

To a rooftop in a busy, bustling city, ramshackle and falling apart. Someone screams behind him.

He flies.

A forest, cool and smelling earthy, peaceful.

He flies.

A small island. In the middle of a small village where someone starts and then backs away slowly, looking down.

He flies.

A high-rise office where a secretary drops her coffee and starts screaming in French.

He flies.

A tree in a field.

Flies.

An alleyway with a rancid smell.

Flies.

Children running. ( _Sammy…_ )

Flies.

A woman's loving smile. ( _Mom_ )

Flies.

Road-

Pain explodes over his right side and his wings snap out and up instinctively.

He flies in defense rather than fear, landing harsh in a small nature reserve that he vaguely remembers.

Not a rib is broken, not a joint out of place though the small flash of teal paint (with red flecks of paint sneaking from underneath- _Like Sammy's first truck_ ) assures him there should be.

Sam.

Sammy.

He sinks to his knees, heart heavy like a thick, lead weight in his chest constricted with steel bands.

Sammy.

And that's where Cas finds him, ten and a half hours later. He hasn't moved and he hasn't breathed. His eyes are open, but they don't see anything and he has no desire. None at all.

He couldn't even look after Sam.

Cas gathers him up but he's isn't aware of it.

Sam.

When he comes back to himself, he's been stripped down. He doesn't care, but it's not the absence of will that it was before. He recognizes the sentiment for what it is- grief.

He's grieving his little brother.

His Sammy.

Again.

Cas is under him, above him, carding hands through his hair where Dean's head is in his lap. He's singing and it takes Dean a moment to make out the words, " _…biblilicos cantan consos spirus amor_ …."

It's haunting and sad but calming and Dean closes his eyes and drifts.

He comes back to himself again to voices downstairs.

"…not going to _again_! … _first_ time…"

Cas' insistent rumble.

" _NO_. …my house… … _trying_ to get him… …wouldn't want…"

Cas' again- defiant and stubborn.

"…fuck outta… …anywhere near… …family...not a lot left…"

The silence from below stretches long enough that he drifts off again.

He comes back for the third time to Cas' cheek against his, but he draws back as soon as Dean's aware of it, eyes staring him down. Dean just looks back.

"I thought you wouldn't come back," he says seriously, slightly afraid and Dean can see the strain in his grace, like a note played too high.

Dean doesn't answer because he's not sure he _has_ come back.

Cas' eyes fall, sorrow following the line of his gaze. Neither of them say anything for a long while.

"You can't leave, Dean." Cas' eyes rise again, lock onto his. "I can't let you go again. You're too weak to fly like that again."

Deep breath in. "And I'm selfish. I can't lose you."

He pursues his lips, looking pained. "I'm sorry."

He gets up and lays a kiss on Dean's forehead, chaste and tender and sorrowful.

It's only at the sound of metal clanging shut that Dean realizes where he is.

The panic room.

Dean rolls over on the cold, lonely cot and blinks back tears that won't fall.

~~~~~~

In a dark, dank hole in the ground, where bodies are nestled between frozen feathers of ash and death, one body stirs. One body moves, gingerly and slowly, and chains clank and scrape and flare, grace bright.

A mouth moans on a long, low sound of pain. Hands held up are numb and the agony of his chest draws whimpers from his throat. He hurts. He aches. His grace is threadbare and raw, notes clashing and mixing, dissolving into disharmonies.

A sudden slack at a wrist has him shrieking in pain before a hand and grace muffle the noises from his mouth the turbulent ripple through his grace.

"Shh, shh!" he's hissed quiet, "Common, easy, _easy_. There we go. Come on."

There's more clattering of iron and the weight from his hand is released.

Is it his hand? He can't remember. Something seems off.

"Alright, let's see… how 'bout…?" the hand is already over his mouth when his other arm is released and muffles the yelp but doesn't do much for the pained whine that digs across the back of his teeth and scrapes across his tongue.

A snap he hadn't recognized the first time around precedes the clatter of iron and he's free.

He's free and- why does that not make sense? Why is that odd?

He tries to stand, tries to rise but his legs won't support him. They're not- something's not right and he can't figure out…

"Whoa-! Hey! No, let's not do that, alright?" the voice is soothing. He knows it from somewhere. Somewhere… From where?

Another snap.

Something's not right.

Something's _wrong_.

He surges to his feet, flares his wings out. He makes himself as large as possible, as _fierce_ as possible. He won't let- he needs-

"Hey-," pained snarling, "Stop that, damnit! I'm trying to _help_ you, you thick headed jack-off!"

Where's- He should be here. Where is he? Why isn't…

"Demons take you, would you just _sit down_?!"

Another snap.

He's lying down. Facedown. Soft. Something soft.

He aches and he hurts and he can't figure out what he's missing.

Something's missing. Something important. Him. He's important to him. Where is he?

He struggles to sit up again.

"No-! Augh- _Fuck it_ ," a hand is on his neck, forcing him still. Another hand is- Where is that? Something's tracing gently, delicately over his spine, like there's something-

Blinding, flashing, electrifying pain that lights up every single nerve he has and some he doesn't. Screaming along his limbs and stopping at every rest stop as he writhes and bucks and screams.

He's not told not to this time.

He thinks that might be bad.

~~~~~~~

He wakes up on his side, naked and staring at his hand, following the curves and lines and divots with his eyes as the length of his body susses out the bed beneath him. There's a pair of loose jeans and a burgundy shirt staring at him from beyond his fingers. Wrinkled exhaustion stares at him from a plush Egyptian throne.

"You're seriously messed up, kid," golden eyes are serious for possibly the first time in their owner's life, "I'm not sure how to get you better or if it's even possible. Hell, I'm not even sure what sort of major clusterfuck they _did_."

Sam rolls onto his back, "Shut up, Gabriel."

"Fine," a snort, "See if I ever save _your_ sorry, ungrateful ass again. It's not like I had to-,"

"Goddamnit, Gabriel, _shut the fuck up_ \- You're giving me a headache."

Gabriel scowls down from above him and something in Sam recoils in pain, forcing out the whimper he can't seem to completely stop.

" _Fuck,_ Sam," Gabriel steps back, but lays a hand over Sam's forehead and something in Sam's mind begins to sing.

He relaxes bit by bit and his headache vanishes almost immediately.

Something bugs him and he's been ignoring it since he woke up, but-

"Gabriel? Where's Lucifer?" he blinks up and is in time to watch the archangel's face drop in sorrow before it falls flat.

"Sam… That's-. We need to talk."

And so he does. Gabriel heals him slowly, piecing him back together one small bit at a time until his chest is whole and there's not a scar on him (except for this long one spanning the width of five vertebrae on his right side) and they talk. Or Gabriel talks.

Gabriel lays it all out in painstaking detail for him-

The spell.

Sam's torture.

Sam's shredded soul.

The ritual.

Lucifer's death.

Lucifer's _sacrifice_.

"-and I think the only thing he could do was give it to you, Sammy."

Grace.

Lucifer's _grace_.

Lucifer gave his grace up because Sam's soul wasn't strong enough to resist the angels' torture and fury. Lucifer, _Sam's_ Lucifer gave up his life, his very being so Sam could continue to live.

Sam rolls over, faces away from Gabriel as much as he can and closes his eyes. He'll never see Lucifer again. As Gabriel explained it, Lucifer doesn't even _exist_ anymore. He's just an echo printed over Sam's soul.

"Sam…"

He can feel Gabriel reaching out/in/other/somewhere to him and Sam curls around himself tighter.

"Go away, Gabriel," he says, the words feeling heavy in his mouth.

Gabriel disappears with a rustle of feathers and Sam curls up tighter and lets the tears come.


End file.
